


Crossed Paths

by Talullah



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Once, two people crossed paths twice.





	Crossed Paths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rogercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/gifts).



**Tol-Galen, First Age 503**

The island… A strange form, made by giants, perhaps, a blot of ominously dark green, almost black in the varying grays of the river. This solitary boulder was his home for his whole life, until a few moons before, when he had bid farewell to his parents, and journeyed to Menegroth along with his wife, Nimloth, and his three children Eluréd, Elurín and Elwing, Elwing a wee thing born on the first day of the year. 

Looking upon the island, drinking in its familiar shape, he remembered how he had felt, just a few months before and for most of his life, as if he was swaddled tight, loved but constricted. And yet, under the quiet eaves of Tol-Galen where nothing ever happened, somehow, he had known that he was fated to be a prince of elvendom, a ruler, wise and strong, much more like his illustrious forefathers than his own father, who adventurous and brave as he might be, wished for nothing but to live in love and in peace in the island, letting everyone live their lives keeping to their own business, following only the rules agreed upon by all in endless councils.

“Why change anything, when we are so perfectly happy?” his mother had once asked him, when he had expressed his persistent thought that there was lack of a vision, a direction, a plan for a common future.

And so it was that when Thingol, the grandfather king had had barely known, had been murdered, Dior had not shied away from the challenge of taking up his place. Many had doubted him – his age, his mannish ancestry, despite Beren’s prodigious accomplishments… But he had wasted no time in doubting himself and very soon, he had reigned in the mayhem, found ways to organize life again in the palatial caves of his people. Nimloth had helped with her wisdom, even when tired from caring for Elwing through the night.

He had never dreamed he would return to Tol-Galen so soon. But when the leaves started to golden, the lord of the Green-elves of Ossiriand came to Menegroth. He walked toward Dior, passing all the courtiers in grave silence. His face was somber, his hands carried a box, a coffer that Dior recognized as he approached the throne. By his side, Nimloth gasped. Even before he opened the box, Dior knew what it contained - Nauglamír and the Silmaril. Dior, looking upon it, knew that his parents had departed to their last great adventure. He rose and clasped the Nauglamír about his neck, feeling upon his shoulders the weight of the world.

It was folly, of course, but for weeks he struggled with the need to visit Tol-Galen, to look at his childhood home. Perhaps to search for a glimpse of his parents… Foolish stuff. And yet, Nimloth, seeing him restless, urged him to go. He rode hard, taking with him a paltry escort. He would have rather have gone alone, but it was too much of a fuss. 

When he crossed the threshold of the log cabin that had been his childhood home, he immediately felt the smell. Pine needles on the floor, drying, faint smoke from the hearth, everything cold and vanishing now that the dwellers had left. ‘What a palace,’ he thought, looking around. Everything raw and cozy, not the home of a delicate princess but of a woman would could bake bread and deliver a baby or swim naked in the river in one day. His mother. Her shawl draped on her rocking chair, just as if she had left a second ago.

And his father, his bow on the table, carelessly set over his book, as if he had just returned with a rabbit or two for supper. His father and mother. A king and a queen, a man and a woman. Happy as Dior had never quite seen anyone else be. Not even himself, with all the tenderness and joy he felt in Nimloth, in her arms, by her side, holding their children, laughing. Bright, yes, lovely, safe, but not quite that ardent flame that lit in Beren and Luthien’s eyes whenever they spoke to one another. Perhaps he was ungrateful or unjust, to compare what felicity he had with their parents.

He walked into the bluish light filtered from the window. His men had found places for themselves, welcomed by the people of the island. He appreciated the discreet respect of the solitude they had conceded him.

Soon it would be a moonless night. Dior acutely realized he had nothing to do here – no personal belongings to care for, since his parents had chosen to live the simplest of lives, no prayers to give, since he felt no pain, just a terrible, vast, inscrutable emptiness. This trip had been a silly whim, he realized. He had known it even before Nimloth had said, “Go!”

Dior sighed deeply and took a few steps around, ending up seated in his father’s chair. Despite the long ride and his weariness, he felt too alert, restless. It was a surprise to himself when, a few hours later, he woke with an aching neck. The room was drenched in darkness, save for a pool of yellow light from a small candle on the table. Next to it, there was bread and fruit. As always, the people of Tol-Galen took care of their own. And, in a way, he was very much one of them.

He ate the bread with a crisp apple. There were a few grapes, too, tangy but much sweeter than those of Doriath that never caught much sun. It was good to be home, but he would ride back first thing in the morning – his place was not here, not anymore.

After eating, he tried to sleep in his old bed, but he was too alert. He roamed around the house. The few utensils left in the kitchen would serve well a newlywed couple, once the people overcame the superstitious reserve around the house. Dior looked around – sooner or later, everything faded and perished, was that not it? Even the memory of his extraordinary parents. 

He stood at the door of his parent’s bedroom, remembering the joy of being tossed up in the air, as a child, of sleeping between them in Winter… After a long while, he entered. He sat on the bed, next to a neat pile of clothes. Someone had taken care of his parents’ belongings. He ran his fingers along the folds of the five or six pieces. From the colours, he knew well what was in the pile. Lúthien’s night blue silk gown, that she used for the midsummer feasts, the silver embroidery at the hem shining faintly under the dark forest green velour of her dress for Winter feasts. Nimloth would like those. A white dress he had only seen his mother wear twice was also on the pile. Below them, rested Beren’s two good jackets. He thought of the parsimony of their parents, of the simplicity of their lives, compared with the riches of Doriath. Luthien used to say that we must not toil for vanity… he smiled. With her beauty, it was easy to speak so.

Wondering why the lord of the Silvan had not brought him these things, too, he took the embroidered pouch that rested over the clothes and pried it open, expecting the two or three pieces of jewelry his mother had kept in Tol-Galen. They were there, but next to them rested a folded piece of paper.

A letter, he identified as he opened, it. Sharp calligraphy, tense and impatient, but beautifully done. He strained his eyes, in the candlelight, and started reading.

“Dearest.

That is still what you are and always will be to me.

It was good seeing you again. Your beauty shines even brighter while you wear my curse and my fate around your delicate, precious neck. Seeing there, the two things I love the most out of hand’s reach, while I am standing right there, not one arm’s length away. I could have torn it away from your neck and I could have had you by force… but you know how, despite all that happened between us and all that has been said about me, and about my brothers, that I have no love for violence. At least not any more.

Let me correct myself. The one thing that I love the most, which is you, and the one thing that I hate the most, which is the Silmaril. You, whom I have never forgotten. You, whom I still believe to love me, in some way, despite your decision to give yourself to that man. Did you really not love me for a second? Those tender afternoons in the alcoves of Nargothrond, when we would talk about everything, when you would sing for me, when you would even touch me, not wholly coldly, slip into my arms, did it all meant nothing to you? I chose to think not, even if you call me a fool, like my brother, incessantly, does.

But life does not end, after anger, betrayal, heartache. I may have not loved another as I have loved you, but I too am flesh and blood and need solace like the remainder of Elú’s creatures. I did not come to your borders seeking the retrieval of the Silmaril or more violence and blood. I know the time for that will come, as much as I not want it to. You see how trapped I am, you have listened to me for long. But I can forsake my oath for a few years. Cheating, I believe it is called. I am doomed either way.”

Dior paused, the letters converging into one great mass of meaningless lines. The paper crumpled under his hands. The nerve of the man. And yet, it was the only letter his mother had kept. She was not a great correspondent, the Doriathrim seldom gave much importance to writing. But still – the only letter, and one that implied that she had met Celegorm and held some exchange with him. He forced his eyes downward, back to the creased paper.

“I have not come seeking revenge either, as you seem to believe. Meeting your son was pure coincidence. Despite all my expertise as a hunter, he found my tracks on the margins of the Adurant. I knew someone was after me, but I guessed them to be patrols and did not take special care. It was a fun game between huntsmen. When he did find me, I saw you in his face immediately, but without the sweetness. I do realize what it must look like to you – to take your son as revenge, to break his heart as retribution. But I swear to you, it was nothing of the sort. Neither of us found love, I dare say, although there were moments of tenderness. His youth was not sullied by me. His heart was never trapped and I did not bruise it. We were just two people who had a chance meeting, where warmth was exchanged for a few weeks. I do not regret it, and he will never regret it either, because he never knew the real name of that tall elf from the North with the Quenya accent.”

Dior paused again, his stomach turning and clenching. Celegorm. The lover he had taken the year before his marriage, that fleeting thing of a few weeks, when he had been out on duty, on the north margin of the Adurant. Disgust coursed through him. He rose to his feet, breathing sharply. Of course, he had always suspected that the elf might be of Fëanor’s kin, despite his denial. But never one of the sons and especially not the man who had tried to keep his mother by force and to kill his father. He rose to his feet and paced the room angrily, until he finally threw a punch into a wall, and spat a curse.

Then he let himself fall down on the bed. Now, the ride, the sleeplessness, the anger, took their toll and he felt drained. Through his mind ran, a continuous question of indignation and disbelief. And betrayal, because he remembered all too well the encounter Celegorm had mentioned. And yes, it had not been the beginning of true love, but the companionship, the desire, the many hours together, hunting, talking, performing the small tasks of a campsite together, were now tarnished.

He tried to quiet his mind. After a while, he picked the letter from the floor and read it again. After the passage where he had stopped, there were only a couple of paragraphs left.

“Dearest, my beloved, still, I regret having caused you this pain and worry. I had never meant for it to happen or for you to learn anything about it. As for Dior, I did have kind feelings for him, and still do. He is lovely as you are and I hope he is happy. I am nothing but a faint memory to him, if that much. Remembering your anger and the words exchanged and seeing all this under a harsh light, I doubt that you can believe what I am trying to tell you. I hope that you will forgive me in time and believe that I meant no harm.”

The letter was finished with an undecipherable scratch, but Dior already knew whom its author was. He folded it neatly, as it had been before, and tucked it on his breast. How had his mother known about his encounter with Celegorm? When and why had they met? And how far had gone her involvement with Celegorm while in Nargothrond? Was all that was written on the letter a collection of lies? Or had Celegorm been caught in the moment, as he, himself had been? A fleeting thing, soft afternoons under the sun, at night the fire crackling and the stars above, and all the skin one could reach?

 

Upon returning home, Dior was sullen for many weeks. Nimloth took it to be sorrow for the loss of this parents and let him be. At dusk, they would go out to a glade and watch the light change from yellows, to gold, to orange, purple, then dark only, deep, dark blue above them. He held her tiny hand in his, thinking how lucky he was to have her in the same breath that he might wonder what secrets she could keep from him, even unwittingly, how each and every soul in this universe carries worlds within. His mother’s secrets, now his own secrets. He despised the notion of not telling Nimloth everything, but he could not, would not speak of something that felt like a wild, dangerous animal circling his mind.

Then slowly, the laughter of his children, the problems of his realm, the joys of his life, replaced the darkness. He seldom looked at the drawer under which he had hidden the letter. When he did, he felt no anger, no humiliation. His mother had, perhaps, made a mistake – or not – he would never know. Celegorm might have not told him the truth, but who knew if he was as devoid of malice as he claimed or not? What it mattered was him, Dior himself. He had done no wrong, nothing shameful, nothing worse than to have a youth affair. All was forgotten, all but the shadow to the Enemy, which drew closer, now that Melian was no longer there to hold them at bay with her Girdle.

**Doriath, First Age 506**

Fire, smoke, screams, ravage. Menegroth defiled, not by the Enemy, but by kin, by other elves, people of another world, another voice, who saw them as nothing but obstacles in their way to retrieve a bauble.

In the middle of the confusion, he made sure that Nimloth escaped, despite her protests, and took Elwing and the Naglaumir with her. He knew that they would be safe in one of the refuges away from the palace. Elured and Elurin were out with their archery teacher. His family was out of the way. He dove into the fight, watching himself move as if he floated somewhere above.

They were few, the Fëanorians, but deadly. All around there was slaughter. Arrows flew, swords hacked, blood and smoke filled the air. For all his efforts, Dior realized they had not prepared enough for such a brazen attack. Their defenses were made for an army, not for these men, cutting through their fronts like angry wasps.

In the middle of it all, he saw what he looked for, since the first alarm. “that I have no love for violence. At least not anymore.” The words on the letter rang through Dior’s mind. He blindly slashed his way over to the murderer, the animal that had done nothing but to harm others.

Celegorm turned, his eyes flashing with recognition. He hesitated for a moment, only long enough for Dior to close on him, sword pointing to the gap on the side of his chest armour. With one strike, Dior could have cut straight to Celegorm’s heart but he hesitated too. The weight of all the unanswered questions finally fell upon him. Celegorm took the chance and swiftly turned, escaping the threat. 

“You should have done it,” Celegorm said.

Dior stood there, sword in hand, paralysed. Then, he jumped into action. “I’ll do it now.”

They parried for a while. Celegorm was a better swordsman, but he made no effort to close their encounter. At times, he was almost sloppy.

“Do it, you coward,” Dior urged him, feeling himself falter and despairing at the sight of so many fallen bodies around them.

“I will not kill you,” Celegorm said, drawing closer. “Not you, whom I loved in a way, and who are her own flesh and blood.”

“If you ever had loved either of us, you would not be here today,” Dior parried.

Celegorm almost smiled. “Her words.”

“The truth.” Dior said, lunging again at Celegorm, who held his ground, despite the slash Dior made on his arm.

“I want you to live.”

“Look around,” Dior said. “This battle is lost for us. What will I be? A prisoner of war? Someone to execute? Or a coward you let escape?”

Celegorm made a swift move to the left and knocked Dior with the hilt of his sword. It was enough to make Dior fall, but not quite to make him faint.

Stunned and blinded, he felt Celegorm kneel by his side, the cold steel of his blade scratching the skin of his neck.

“Stay down,” Celegorm said, smearing him with his own blood.

“I will not!” Dior said. He tried to rise, but Celegorm placed his arm on Dior’s throat.

“Stay down, you fool. I am trying to save you.”

Dior tried to answer but he was choking under Celegorm’s arm. In despair, he reached for the knife in his boot and stabbed Celegorm, hitting the armour once, hitting a gap on the second try. Despite the wound, Celegorm kept holding him down with all his weight. Dior saw black, then faded out.

He woke much later. All was quiet, safe for faint calls in the distance. He strained his ears. Elurin. Elured – his children. Someone was calling out to them. Around him, many Doriathrim cadavers lay about the floor. All the Feanorian ones were gone. He tried to sit up but was too faint. It was hard to breathe, his throat was sore and bruised. Slowly, everything fell into place. Celegorm had tried to make him unconscious to save him. And he had killed him – or not. He let himself fall back. There was no point in moving now and risk being seen.

As soon as night fell, he searched for any sign of Nimloth. They had never discussed deeply what would happen if Menegroth was overrun. There were escape routes and both had agreed that, should ever anything happen, Nimloth would take the children south.

Therefore, as soon as he felt that he could move safely, he walked towards the south. It took him a couple of days to catch up with the sad remainder of Doriath. He felt ashamed that he had not protected them, as it was his duty. Now they had lost their homes, their families. So he followed the group in silence, under the shadows of the trees.

And it was from the shadows that he watched Nimloth smiled for the first time since the attack, when Nellas caught up with them, bringing with her the twins. He wanted so much to reach out and hold them tight in his arms. Elwing still so small. The boys and Nimloth so sad. But guilt prevented him.

Until one day, when the group at last reached the Mouths of the Sirion. There was a larger village in the center of the huge triangle that spread below, and around it, several smaller clusters of houses. It looked peaceful and completely unguarded. But Dior knew that the Elves of the Falas had built hidden defenses, once they sought refuge in the delta.

He was so absorbed contemplating the landscape that he did not felt any one coming close until it was too late and he had a blade to his throat.

“Who are you?” Nimloth said.

“It is me,” Dior replied, prying her arm from his neck and turning for her to see him.

A look of shock, then joy, then anger that crossed her face. Then she stood there, completely stunned, reaching for words.

When she finally spoke, only one word came out. “Why?”

Dior shook his head. After a while he said, “I am not worthy to return to your side. I let Doriath fall.”

Nimloth slapped his face. “We thought you were dead and I have been mourning you and you are skulking in the shadows, because you didn’t die a hero?”

Dior nodded. “Yes.”

Nimloth threw her arms around him. “I was so worried, then so sad,” she said at last. “Can you even imagine?”

“I know, I know,” he said, holding her thight. “I know I was selfish, in a way.”

They talked for long. Nimloth wanted Dior to assume the role of leader once more, but he refused. In the end, they agreed that his survival and the twins, would not be announced, for fear that it might reach Feanorian ears and that they would come after the Silmaril again. For now, it was enough to live a low profile life, away from the crowd, his presence known only to a few close friends.

“I am still angry with you, but I am so glad that you are here with me and the children.”

Dior kissed her forehead. “I am glad too.”

Finis  
February 2019


End file.
